


Darkstache Week 2019

by Xpouii



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gore, Knives, M/M, Shooting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-14 01:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19263313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xpouii/pseuds/Xpouii
Summary: Daily prompts for Darkstache Week 2019 by projectdarkstache on Tumblr.





	1. Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark and Wilford deal with a little weather.

                “Pripyat,” Wil read on the aged sign. “Charming. Although I can’t say much about the welcome wagon.”

                “Keep your eyes open,” Dark said. “He’s here, and he knows we’re here.”

                Wilford shrugged and caught a snowflake on his tongue, making a face, “Ukrainian snow isn’t my favorite.”

                “A little radiation won’t hurt you,” Dark muttered. “Now, come on. Let’s try to find some high ground.”

                The crunch of their feet on show echoed through the empty streets, and Dark spotted a set of metal stairs leading to the roof of a squat building that seemed mostly intact. They climbed up trying to be quiet, but the metal creaked and popped beneath them, announcing their presence to anyone nearby. A single gunshot sounded as Dark’s foot hit the roof, and they both went flat, crawling along to the edge. They drew their guns, and Wil spotted their target first.

                Mark was in a suit, hair slicked back and backlit by the setting sun; despite his smug expression, he looked a lot like Damien. Wilford had to ignore a sad twinge in his heart, and he hesitated. Dark nudged him out of the way, “If you’re not going to shoot him, Wil then get out of my way!”

                Wil snapped out of it, “Da-“

                The bullet tore through Dark’s chest and sprayed Wil with blood. He gasped, but Dark just snarled and returned fire. The bullets were enough to keep Mark from shooting again, but not enough to drive him out of his hiding spot. “Fuck!”

                Wil touched Dark’s shoulder, “Not that this isn’t great, but remind me again, how fun is Ukrainian prison?”

                Dark paused and heard the sirens, “About as fun as prison anywhere else.”

                “Still, we should probably break up our little party for now and see Mark in the morning, hm?”

                Dark looked down at his ruined shirt and sighed, “Fine. It’s almost too dark to shoot anyway. He likes the attention too much to try and slip past us.”

                Wil grabbed Dark’s arm and hauled him to his feet, ducking under Mark’s suppressing fire and stumbling down the icy stairs. Their footsteps were no longer audible under the wail of approaching police, and Wil pulled Dark into a large warehouse, the rusty door shrieking in protest. It swung shut behind them and they were plunged into relative darkness. One corner of the large open space was lit from the collapsed roof overhead, and it let in most of the cold that the walls kept out. Dark walked over to an abandoned pile of flattened cardboard and sat down heavily.

                “Better let me get that bullet out,” Wil said.

                Dark shrugged off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, “It’ll come out eventually.”

                “I suppose, but it might be a little bothersome when we’re chasing Mark tomorrow.”

                Dark grunted, but he tossed his shirt aside and reclined on the dirty cardboard, hands behind his head, “Why the Ukraine, do you think?”

                Wilford smiled, taking out his knife and kneeling beside Dark, “Dramatics, maybe? Eastern European spies and nuclear disasters. He’s taken us to stranger places, I suppose… never this cold before.”

                “I’ve been colder,” Dark said, wincing as Wil went digging for the bullet. “Would you prefer to just stick your whole hand in?”

                Wil chuckled, “I’ve dug bullets out of men less tough than you, believe me, Dark. Just think about something nice.”

                “Something nice?” Dark muttered. “Mark with a bullet between his eyes would have been nice.”

                “There we go,” Wil said. “You’re relaxing already… well… maybe not relaxing per se, but you aren’t flickering so much, which makes this a lot easier.”

                Dark gave Wil a look, but said nothing, genuinely relieved when the bullet finally popped out of his body and clattered to the concrete floor. He sighed, “Thank you.”

                Wil smiled and kissed Dark’s forehead before handing him his shirt. “Anything for you, old friend. Now… are we actually going to spend the night here?”

                “Just go home,” Dark said, sitting up to pull on his shirt and buttoning it. “I’ll finish this.”

                “We could both go home,” Wil said. “Come back tomorrow—I’ll even make us a nice breakfast!”

                “I’m staying, Wil.”

                Wil scooted closer, but Dark jerked way, “We could keep each other warm.”

                “I’ll just make you colder,” Dark said.

                “I can _help_ you,” Wilford said.

                “I don’t need you!” Dark growled, standing up and walking away to the opposite corner.

                Wilford wanted to argue, but it wouldn’t do much good. He sighed and laid back on the makeshift bedding, wondering how long it would take Dark to get uncomfortably cold. He drifted off to the once-again deafening silence and the encroaching darkness—broken only by the airy sounds of snowfall.

                Wilford woke in the pitch blackness when he felt Dark moving near him; the gray man settled in, pressing his back against Wil’s chest. Wilford wrapped an arm around Dark and pulled him closer, “Cold?”

                “Shut up,” Dark murmured, but he placed his hand on Wilford’s arm and let out a deep rumble of contentment.

                Maybe Ukrainian snow was Wil’s favorite after all.


	2. Past and Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor from the past causes a fuss.

                Dark could feel the cold before she woke, stirring in his chest and behind his eyes. He had locked himself in his room, wondering if he should fight to keep her asleep—and how would he? It hadn’t been long. Was she even rested? He closed his eyes for barely more than an instant, and he woke up in the cabin, with the damnable storm outside. “Celine?”

                “Damien. How are you holding up? You look terrible.”

                Dark scowled, “I’m not… Celine, I’m fine. You don’t have to wake up.”

                Celine looked up, her dark hair hanging in her eyes, “Damien, you can’t carry hatred like I can. You’re too soft. You’ll fall apart. You can’t do this alone.”

                “I’m not Damien,” Dark said. “And I’m not alone.”

                Celine opened her mouth to reply, but a voice outside caught her attention.        

                “Dark! I’ve got a surprise for you!” Wilford called, barging into his room. “I made pancakes!”

                Celine snarled and wrestled control over Dark’s body, dragging him to his feet. Dark struggled, but there was no stopping her; she was ten time stronger. The auras blazed red, and she reached out to slam Wilford against the wall. He yelped, dropping his plate, “Dark! That was supposed to be your breakfast! What’s gotten into you?” Wilford folded his arms, working up to one of his famous pouts, but Celine had other ideas.

                “William!” she roared. “I’ll kill you where you stand!”

                “Celine?” Wilford’s eyes glazed over, and his jaw went slack as he froze in place.

                “STOP!” Dark shouted, picking up one of the logs from the cabin’s blazing fireplace and tossing it through the small window. Glass shattered and the cold swept in, shocking Celine out of control.

                Dark stumbled away from Wilford, holding onto his desk, “Get out, Wilford! Run!”

                Wilford hesitated, but another red flash of Dark’s eyes sent him scrambling out of the room; inside of Dark, they were struggling in that stupid cabin. “Celine you don’t know what you’re doing! Wilford didn’t _do_ anything!”

                “You can’t keep coddling him, Damien! That’s how it’s always been! You make all of these little allowances for him and he leaves you holding the bag! Every time!”

                “It isn’t like that now!” Dark growled. “We work together. He’s helping me with Mark.”

                “Please!” Celine laughed. “Helping you with Mark! Nobody’s ever been able to _touch_ Mark aside from me. You expect me to believe that William and you are going to kill him?”

                “You don’t know me anymore,” Dark said. “You don’t know _him_. You’ve been asleep for too long to wake up and take over.”

                Celine folded her arms, “So you’re in charge now? The younger sibling surpasses the older?”

                “I am _not_ Damien!” Dark roared. “Get that through your head! I’m not Damien and he isn’t William! And you… you’re not the strongest anymore.”

                “What’s so different now?”

                “I love him,” Dark said. “I love him and if you hurt him… I’ll kill you. I don’t know how, but I swear-”

                Celine laughed again, but there was no bitterness in it, “Oh my god. How many of our hearts does he need to tear through?”

                “Just mine,” Dark said. “Go back to sleep, Celine. When I need you, I’ll wake you up.”

                “You don’t even know what you’re doing,” Celine said. “You’re just… playing Mark’s games.”

                “I’ve made my choice,” Dark said. “I make the choice every day. We all chose the game, and I’ll keep all of us safe until he’s dead.”

                Celine sat at the broken table and sighed, “And how many are there?”

                “Maybe a dozen now,” Dark said. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

                “How many are you going to let him ruin?”

                Dark walked to the door, “Just me. Now go back to sleep.”

                Celine looked at him, and suddenly she looked tired. She gave him a small smile, “Goodnight, little brother.”

                Dark watched the cabin—and Celine’s wasteland—melt away around him, and he was in full control of himself again. He sat heavily on his bed and adjusted to the shifting of the auras again, balance—more or less—restored.

                Wilford peeked his head in the door and spotted Dark sitting on the bed, “Celine?”

                Dark jumped and wiped his eyes, “She’s sleeping… again.”

                “Right,” Wil said. He stepped into the room and walked over to sit next to Dark. “Good… it was nice to see her.”

                Wilford smelled like caramel corn and cotton candy, like younger days spent at the circus, laughter and soft looks and camaraderie. Dark leaned against him and inhaled just a bit of his humanity back, sighing around a mouthful of painful nostalgia. Wil lifted a hand and squeezed Dark’s shoulder, “Well, at least she didn’t try to carve your heart out.”

                “I would have let her,” Wil said.


	3. Dark's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Dark's birthday!

                Dark stepped out of the cabin, relishing in the death curling under his feet. He ran his hands through his unkempt hair, and when he glanced up, he came face to face with someone else. “Oh there you are, Damien! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

                Dark was quiet for a moment, puzzled, but his mind slowly caught up. He knew this man, “Oh… hi, Wil.”

                Wilford smiled, following him. “You haven’t seen Celine around anywhere, have you? If I can avoid her I’d rather-”

                “She’s sleeping,“ Dark growled.

                “Oh good!” Wilford said, throwing his arm around Dark’s shoulders. “Anyway! We’re gonna make a tv show!”

                Dark stared at the man, then blinked when they were suddenly back in the mansion, and the sounds of other people echoed through the hallway, “Ok…”

                “Oh, right, the others. Come on don’t be shy now. I’ll introduce you!”

                Dark hesitated, “Wil I’m not in any state to be meeting-”

                “What do you mean? You look great!”

                He was right. Dark was in a suit, cane in his hands. He blinked again, and now his mind felt as odd-fitting as his body, “Wil…”

                “Alright alright,” Wilford said. “First, you can go up to your room and freshen up. I’ll let everybody know you’re finally here.”

                “Everybody.”

                “That’s right! Go on upstairs before the Jims get nosy!”

 

                Dark stared into the mirror and the auras swam around him; they were harmonious, but at odds as well, a push and pull equal and opposite. He splashed water on his face and before he could catch himself, started to slick his hair back. He dropped his hands and shook his hair out again. He had to remember who he wasn’t, even if he was yet to finalize who he _was_. The voices had quieted down outside of the bedroom, and Dark paced the bedroom with the cane in his hands, unknowingly twisting it in his grip, self-soothing with a familiar object. The chaos in his mind had quieted, and somewhere in his conflicted heart, he missed Wil…ford. It was this pang for familiarity that drove him out into the rest of the house.

                The wood of the banister felt familiar under his cool palm as he descended the stairs, and his auras flared up when a man ran by, his face smeared with peanut butter. Dark grit his teeth and pushed himself forward; he went into the kitchen where he found Wil—and two other men. Wilford looked up and smiled, “There he is!”

                The other two turned his way; one man wore a blue shirt and glasses; he twitched and glitched, his expression almost predatory. The second was dressed nicely with a warm smile. “Bim Trimmer, nice to meet you!” he said, thrusting his hand at Dark.

                Dark looked at the man’s hand, and took it slowly, “Dark.”

                “And this is Google,” Wilford said. “No need to shake his hand. He isn’t one for formalities. Do you want something to drink?”

                “No,” Dark said. “How many are there?”

                “How many? That’s a good question.”

                “Where did they come from?”

                Wilford smiled, “Here and there… it’s not where they came from, it’s _who_ brought them here.”

                “Mark,” Dark growled.

                Bim retreated visibly, but played it off and walked to the cabinet for a glass, “Wilford says he’s planning a television show, and that you’ll be a producer. It’ll be lovely working with you.”

                Dark paused, “TV show… right.”

                “I remain skeptical as to whether or not it will adhere to my primary objective,” Google said, his blue eyes adjusting like camera lenses when he glanced at Dark.

                “Right right,” Wilford dismissed. “There’s time for that at the pitch meeting. Just leave it all up to me! Ole Warfstache will blow you away!”

                “This way Jim! It’s the new man!”

                Two identical men burst in, one holding a microphone and the other a large news camera. They moved in on Dark, the _reporter_ of the two of them was staring wide-eyed. “Easy, Jim,” Wilford said. “You remember what happened with The Host, don’t you?”

                “Keep a safe distance, Jim!” the man hissed. His cameraman stepped back.

                Dark turned away from them, looking at Wil, “Wilford, can we talk about the lunatic in the hallway with the peanut butter please?”

                “That’s the King of the Squirrels,” Bim said. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless.”

                Dark gave Wilford a look and the man smiled, “Right, um, Mr. Trimmer would you see to it that Kingy stays out of trouble, please? And Jims, off you go, scat! Google, go… clean something.”

                The others scattered under Wilford’s instruction, and Dark leaned against the counter, pressing his forehead to the cool stone, “Wil.”

                “That was overwhelming, I know,” Wil said. “It gets better. You don’t have to meet anyone else today.”

                “Mark really brought them all here?”

                Wilford nodded, rubbing small circles into Dark’s back, “As far as I can tell, every one of them had a life before they showed up here, and now there’s no leaving… not really. Like us… there are other worlds but… this one’s home.”

                Dark winced, “Home.”

                “Dark you said? I like it. It suits you. Alright, you’re Dark now. Happy birthday, Dark.”

                Dark looked up at him, “Birthday?”

                “Well more or less. Time is… slippery around here, isn’t it? But, this is your first day here, as yourself. So… yes, happy birthday! You want me to sing?”

                “Not particularly,” Dark said. “But does it matter?”

                “Not really,” Wilford said. “But! I did make you a cake.”

                “You made me a cake… what, since I came down here?”

                “You’re not the only one with fancy tricks up your sleeve. Now… Damien liked strawberry I think, but I’m betting you’re a lemon man.”

                Dark regarded Wilford for a moment of silence, and then he nodded. The cake appeared on the countertop near him, one candle brightly burning. He almost smiled when Wilford started singing.

 

                Dark’s birthday wasn’t a typical celebration, but Wilford made the most of it, and when Dark couldn’t stand another moment of socialization, Wilford walked him up to his room. There were words between them that needed to be said, but not tonight. They had all the time in the world for talking. For now, Dark needed to find Mark, and Wilford had a television spot to record—and they both had a house full of madmen to babysit. Dark assumed most of that responsibility would go to him, and he resolved to get better at intimidation, and his first note was to scribble down Wilford’s birthday—something he mustn’t forget.


	4. Strange Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark tortures an old friend--or a complete stranger.

                Dark stood in the basement of an abandoned home—chosen for its spot in the middle of an empty neighborhood—and he waited. He waited in the dark, silent dampness for the unconscious man’s rhythmic breathing to change, for the smallest indication that he was awake. Dark waited, and he was patient.

                When Mark opened his eyes, he groaned, shifting in the steel chair; he tested the ropes tying his arms and legs down, blinking as if confused. He looked up at Dark, squinting, “Wh… where am I? Who are you?”

                Dark bared his teeth in a sneer, “Save the snark. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I would hate for you to run out of steam.”

                Mark looked afraid, and well he should be, but it was different; there was something visceral in it that tugged at Dark’s gut, gave him giddy butterflies. He watched Mark squirm for a moment before stepping forward, “I seriously… I don’t know you! Are you a fan? Listen, listen man we can talk this out, ok? Your cosplay is… it’s great. It’s really impressive. I really appreciate you taking so much time on it ok? Just um… untie me. Ok?”

                Dark’s nose wrinkled in distaste. If he was going to go out of his way to devise this torture scene, to take on his role as the villain with such passion, the least Mark could do is treat him as something beyond a _crazed fan_. He was being disrespected, blatantly. He moved forward, outwardly calm although he was boiling beneath the surface. Mark recoiled, struggling in the chair. Dark circled him, watching the veins pop out in his neck as he strained to see over his shoulder. “I’m going to teach you some wonderful things,” Dark purred, walking to the old table just out of Mark’s view. He picked up a knife, a simple hunting knife, and came back.

                “Fuck man!” Mark cried, his voice jumping up an octave. He jerked hard enough in the chair that he broke his left wrist free.

                Dark saw red, and he brought the knife down through Mark’s hand, pinning it to the heavy arm of the chair. Mark screamed, wild and sharp and music to Dark’s ears. “Pay attention, please. I don’t like to repeat myself.”

                “What the fuck! Fuck you! Fuc-”

                Dark backhanded Mark, the smart collision of his knuckles against Mark’s cheekbone was practically music; the skin split, and blood welled from the tiny cut. Mark whimpered, and his eyes were welling with involuntary tears; he was, however, quiet. Dark smiled, “There we go. You can be taught after all. Now, since you’ve made my knife unusable, I want you to pick a number. One through seven.”

                Mark stared at up him, that little inkling of defiance was back beneath the far, and he kept his lips squeezed tight together. Dark reached over to took Mark’s hand, pulling it up so that it slid along the blade. Another scream forced his lips apart, “Four! Four _four four fuck fuck_ I’m sorry!”

                “Four, now that’s a nice choice,” Dark said, sweeping over to the table. He picked up the pair of bolt cutters and came back, looking them over. “Now… where should we use this, do you think?”

                Mark paled, and he sank against the chair like he could hide. “Oh god,” he moaned, fear washing over him in waves like nausea. “Please… please…”

                “Now now,” Dark said. “No need to get emotional on me. It all grows back, right? So tell me, _Mark_ , fingers or toes?”

                “Toes!” Mark blurted, because his hand was already in pain, and his brain wouldn’t allow him to reason.

                Dark smiled, walking over and positioning the cutters over Mark’s second toe on his left foot. Mark squirmed, but Dark made the cut quick, snipping off the toe. Hysterical wails and blood poured from Mark, and Dark smiled again, putting the bolt cutters back on the table. “Wasn’t that fun? Might want to avoid four from now on, hm?”

                Mark was breathing in large, panicked gulps, hyperventilating, and when his eyes rolled back in his head, Dark pressed his knuckles against Mark’s heart, massaging it roughly and forcing Mark to wake up. He yelped, but he was awake, aware, shivering. “Pl-plea-se…”

                “Please, what?” Dark said, grabbing Mark’s jaw and lifting his face up. “Maybe you’d like to address me by my proper name. I’m not some _fan_ and you know it.”

                Mark’s pupils were blown wide, and his face was pale, “I don’t-”

                Dark reached down and twisted the knife, and Mark’s body arched, his mouth opened and strained before a bellow of pain tore its way out. “You don’t?”

                “Dark! Dark please stop! Stop!”

                Dark smirked and released his face, “Finally gave up calling me Damien, I see. Very good, now is not the time to misname me. Would you like to play another round of our little numbers game?”

                Mark’s hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, and he looked up at Dark, shaking his head. Dark pursed his lips, and Mark squeezed his eyes shut, tears flowing down his cheeks. It was unlike him, so unlike him, and it almost made Dark pause—but whatever character Mark wanted to play was his own business. If he wanted to snivel and make a fool out of himself, all the more fun for Dark. He walked back to the table and picked up a handgun, jumping when he was suddenly face-to-face with Wilford. “Wil! What are you doing here?”

                “I noticed you were gone… what’s all this?”

                “Work,” Dark growled, moving back around in front of Mark. “Don’t you have something else you could be doing?”

                Wilford looked at his quarry, “You’re sure this is him?”

                “What do you mean!” Dark spat. “Of course it’s him!”

                “Please! Please help me! He’s crazy… please!” Mark broke down in sobs and Dark aimed the gun, cocking it and firing a round into his knee.

                Mark couldn’t even scream this time, his throat clamped down on the sound of it, but he jerked in the chair as if he was trying to physically escape the pain. Blood stained his gray sweatpants, and Dark couldn’t help but sneer. “You really should learn when to drop an act.”

                Wilford was quiet, twisting his hands, “Dark… I’m not so sure this is a good idea. I think you should let him go.”

                “Let him go? What the fuck are you talking about Wil! I’m just getting started!”

                “I think he’s going to… you know… go to sleep,” Wil muttered.

                “Mark can’t _die_ , at least I haven’t figured out how to kill him yet,” Dark said. “He’s the perfect torture subject.”

                Wil shook his head, watching Mark slump over in his chair, “No Dark he doesn’t look so good. I don’t think that’s Mark.”

                “Idiot I know who Mark is! I know his face!”

                “Dark…”

                “No,” Dark growled, walking over to the table and setting the gun down. “I’m done discussing this.”

                “I wish you wouldn’t make me do this,” Wil said.

                Dark spun around to see Wil disappearing with Mark, and he screamed in rage, his auras surging out and destroying the room—and house—around him. He climbed the destroyed steps and stood in the rubble, his eyes solid black in his seething rage. His auras wrapped around him and he stepped into the void, vanishing. By the time he got to the manor, Wil was already there, and he grabbed him by the shirt, slamming him against the wall hard enough for it to crack. The Jims who had been talking to Wil scattered, leaving them alone, “You fucking betrayed me!”

                “Darkie, you know I would never,” Wilford said. “That wasn’t who you thought it-“

                Dark shook Wilford, his auras flickering and whipping around him like a mass of angry snakes, “You protected _him_!”

                “I wasn’t protecting him, Dark,” Wilford said, tears in his eyes. “I was protecting you!”

                Dark’s anger faded the second he saw Wilford’s tears; he laid his forehead against Wilford’s shoulder, and they cried together.       


	5. AU Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark reveals his and Wilford's story to Edward. (Previous Mythea AU piece can be found in my Docthor Week story!)

                Edward looked up when the man was marched into his interview room and sat at the table, strapped down into the chair, “Hello.”

                “Hello Edward. I’m very glad to see you again,” Dark said, smiling. “What are we going to talk about?”

                “That depends,” Edward said. “What would you like to talk about, Dark? This is our first session, so I’d like to leave that up to you. Mr. Trimmer tells me you do like to talk.”

                Dark grinned, “Oh I do. Why don’t I tell you a story?”

                “Please,” Edward said, licking the tip of his pen and preparing to take notes.

                Dark took a breath and parted his lips, and he told his story.

 

                “Wilford—you know him, the one with the mop—and I, our friend Mark, my wife the District Attorney and Mark’s wife Celine—also my twin sister. We were all attending a New Year’s Eve party at Mark and Celine’s home. We’d wanted to go out, but Mark had insisted. So we all gathered in the parlor, and Mark and Celine wanted to do a séance—you know how popular they’ve gotten, doctor. Well Wilford never cared for all that, and to tell the truth neither did I, but my wife seemed happy to play along—and there had been an awful lot of red wine flowing that night.

Celine called upon a spirit that claimed to be the house, not from the house, not in the house, _the house_. It started the typical knocking once for yes twice for no, and Mark was asking it questions. Celine didn’t like him taking over—she’s the seer after all, but she never dared say much out of line to Mark. He had a habit of putting his hands on her, especially when drunk. Mark was asking some very pointed questions of this _house ghost_ , and it started down the path of Celine’s fidelity.

                Now, everyone knew—even Mark I suspect—that Celine and Wilford were having an affair. They had been for over a year. Mark was a bastard, and Celine ran to Wilford because Wilford was loving, attractive, and hopelessly devoted to my sister. Unfortunately, Mark isn’t the type to let his _things_ be handled by other men, especially not the sister of a politician so highly thought of in the upper class of the area. Celine did seances for every influential family in the country. She was a wealthy woman in her own right, but of course Mark took care of the estate, so the money went to him. Well when Celine started seeing Wilford, that changed. She started handing half of every payment over to Wilford for safekeeping. I think she was planning to leave Mark and run away, but I never got to ask her.

                Anyway, back at it, the _house_ is telling Mark in no certain terms that Celine is sleeping around on him, and he’s just laughing like a maniac, you know? It’s all a game to him. So he asked it to _mark_ who it was that she was having the affair with. Well all of the sudden Wilford jumps up and starts shouting—it wasn’t even in English, I think maybe it was Latin but I’m not an expert like Celine would be. So he just grabs his gun then and kills her. He shoots her right in the head.

 

                Dark stopped then, taking a breath, “Please, could I get some water?”

                Edward looked up at the orderly who didn’t budge, “Of course. Just a moment.”

                When Edward returned, he held the cup for Dark and then the man was ready to continue. It probably wasn’t easy, as manipulative and dangerous as he supposedly was. It was his _sister_ after all.

 

                So Wilford kills Celine, and then the babbling just stops; it’s like he’s himself. He realizes what he’s done, but he’s panicked, you know? He looked terrified. My wife screamed and stood up, and he shot her. It wasn’t on purpose. I know it wasn’t; the gun went off because his hands were shaking so hard. Then Mark was just laughing, laughing like a demon. All of my time in this asylum I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like he _wanted_ this to happen. So Wilford shoots him too. Now _that_ one was on purpose. He tried to kill himself but I wrestled the gun away from him. He was a broken man… he kept insisting it must be a joke. I must admit… the both of us broke in that moment. Neither of us has had a sane moment since.

 

                “And when the police came, they blamed Wilford for everything?” Edward asked.

                Dark nodded, “I told them what happened, but none of them would hear it. They put me on opiates and sent me to my summer cottage while my deputy mayor took over for me. Wilford went to prison, and—in short order—he ended up at Mythea. I came along not too much later. After all, he’s my best friend. I couldn’t just leave him to it, could I?”

                “So it seems like perhaps Wilford was coerced into these murders? Under some sort of trance? If nothing else he was forced into a schizophrenic episode by Mark’s taunting?”

                Dark nodded, “But, nobody wants to hear the words that exonerate a madman. As long as he’s here, the story can just go away.”

                “What would you estimate is the reason you’ve become so violent since that day?”

                “Me? Oh… I suspect Celine is here with me… I can hear her whispering to me. She tells me things—things people say when they’re on the other side of the facility, things before they happen. She talks to me like she used to talk to the dead. Sometimes, she give me instructions. I suppose I’ve been to lax at fighting the temptations. It does feel so good to spill blood, doctor. Just ask your surgeon friend. It’s like sinking into a warm bath, like the first sip of Brandy or the first bird’s song in the morning. It’s comforting, reminding myself that I’m alive, and they’re dead… although Celine does tend to be a little self-righteous about it all.”

                Edward looked up from his notes. His hand was cramping, but he wanted more. Dark, however, was already looking over his shoulder at the orderly. “All finished for the day?”

                “I’m afraid so,” Dark said. “This chair is uncomfortable and it’s a little too _bright_ up here.”

                Edward smiled, “Thank you Dark.” He looked up at the orderly and nodded, packing up his things as Dark was led away. He had some things to ask Bim— _and_ Wilford.

 


	6. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yan and Bim have some festive ideas.

                Bim and Yan were whispering excitedly to one another as Wilford appeared behind his chair at one end of the table. He sat down and smiled. It was the first day of June, quite an important time for some of them, but it seemed to resonate the most with Yan and Bim. It was nice to see her out of her shell for once, speaking with a smile instead of a leer. The others filed in slower, and some didn’t come at all—but Dark would deal with them later. Wilford gave Edward a wave, and the doctor returned it before turning to speak with The Host, and across from then Google made a point of ignoring Bing who had joined Bim and Yan’s conversation. Ed Edgar and Derek Derekson were muttering about cars, and Eric was shrinking into his seat, only made worse when Dark appeared in his seat, sucking the color from around him before he managed to settle.

                “Good morning, Dark!” Wilford greeted.

                Dark nodded, “Wil. Now, today-“ He scowled over at Bim and Yan, who were still speaking. “I’d appreciate a little more respect for my time,” he growled.

                Bim froze and instantly ducked his head, “Sorry, Dark.”

                Yan smiled and sat back, attentive, and Dark decided everyone was ready to start. The meeting was short, simple, and mostly just an update on Mark and what they were doing to further the agenda of discrediting and killing him—again. When Dark dismissed everyone, Yan raised her hand, “Dark! Can we put up some things for pride month?”

                Dark looked up, and everyone else sat back down and fell back into silence. “Excuse me?”

                “Pride month, you know? June? We have some flags and things we wanted to-”

                “No,” Dark said, picking up his paperwork.

                Bim’s face fell and Yan jumped to her feet, “That’s not fair!”

                “Yan,” Bim started, but Yan drew her katana and he fell silent.

                “It isn’t fair! Pride month is important! We get to put up a stupid Christmas tree in December! This is _important_!”

                Dark’s auras swirled and a lesser ego would have cowered, but Yan wasn’t afraid, and she stood her ground, “I _said_ no!”

                “And _we_ have rights in this house! You don’t own it either!”

                Dark snarled, but Wilford stepped around Yan and raised his hands, “Let’s just everyone calm down and talk this out. Yan, maybe you could just put together some things to show Dark? Bim could help? I believe Bing might be interested as well. Then we can come to an agreement about decorating, alright?”

                Yan huffed, but she nodded, and walked out. Bim slipped out of his seat and followed quickly. The other egos weren’t far behind, leaving Wil and the seething Dark alone. “Don’t undermine me like that, Wil.”

                “You know I didn’t,” Wil soothed. “I’m just trying to help. Yan’s defiant, that’s all. She’s too much like you.”

                Dark scoffed, but he was calming down, “I don’t want a big bunch of… nonsense hanging all over the mansion, Wil.”

                “I don’t know why you’re so protective of it. It’s _his_ after all.”

                “It _was_ his,” Dark said. “Now it’s ours. We should have some pride in our own place.”

                Wil smiled, “Like you when you blew the East wall out of your bedroom three weeks ago?”

                “That was entirely your fault,” Dark said. “I had very little to do with it.”

                “You were very much present and accounted for,” Wil said. He hooked his fingers into the beltloops of Dark’s dress pants and pulled him close, “As a matter of fact I’d say you were a featured guest.”

                Dark leaned in for a kiss, but Wilford stopped him with a finger against his lips. “What is this?” Dark growled.

                “You remember all those years ago? Celine was holed up inside with her scary books, and Mark’s parents put him in that cereal commercial? And we had that whole summer alone together? How we’d always settle our differences?”

                Dark’s eyebrow twitched. He wanted to say something snarky, growl that _he wasn’t Damien_ for the thousandth time, but he did remember, and his slow heart had kicked up at the suggestion. “And?”

“I’d like to make a deal,” Wilford said. “We’re both men with needs, so I propose that-”

                “Yes,” Dark said.

                Wilford blinked, “You don’t need to know the details?”

                “Did I ever?” Dark muttered, and claimed the kiss he was owed.

 

                Yan stood nervously at the front of the meeting room, a slideshow prepared. She waited until Dark lifted a hand to start. She opened her mouth to take a breath, but before the first slide was even up, Dark spoke. “Yes.”

                Yan’s mouth fell further open, “Yes?”

                “Yes to all of it,” Dark said. “Yan and Bim will be in charge, but everyone can participate however they want to. July first, anything in the common areas comes down, but until then, the entire house is yours to decorate.”

                Yan beamed and she hugged Bim when he stood up; they hurried out to make the necessary announcements, and Wilford turned in his chair to smile knowingly at Dark. Dark rolled his eyes, standing up, “Just don’t let this go to your head, Wil.”

                Wilford grinned, “Don’t I always?”           


	7. Spring Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warm weather gives Wil an idea.

                Dark was on the balcony, eyes closed as a warm breeze blew his hair away from his face. Spring had undeniably arrived—probably weeks ago while Dark was locked up inside. He almost smiled before he heard voices, and he watched as Wilford and Google walked by below him. Perhaps it was the warmth of the sun, or the smell of flowers on the wind, but he let his eyes wander, over Wilford—and over and over—until he noticed Wilford smiling up at him. He jerked back and turned away to hide the way his cheeks were coloring before hurrying back inside.

                He’d barely sat down at his desk before Wilford was stepping through his door. Dark kept his eyes downward, wishing his face would cool down. Wil moved forward without a word, resting his hands on the large desk and leaning in. Dark slowly lifted his gaze, meeting Wilford’s eyes. “…yes?”

                Wilford smiled and sat in his chair—his because Dark wouldn’t often suffer anyone else sitting across from him while he worked, “I couldn’t help but notice you enjoying the weather. It was nice to see you in the sun. It doesn’t happen often.”

                “I thought you preferred me in the dark,” Dark muttered, trying to make a snide remark.

                Wil’s eyes darkened, and he grinned, “Oh, Dark, you know I always keep the lights on. I couldn’t bear to miss anything.”

                Dark raised an eyebrow, “Can I help you?”

                “I didn’t expect you to be so pliant!” Wilford said gleefully. “I want you to go for a swim with me.”

                “A swim?”

                “That’s right.”

                Dark snorted, “Have you lost your mind?”

                “When’s the last time we went swimming together? It’s been years! Besides, don’t you want to see me in my suit?”

                “That hideous thing?” Dark mused, trying to get out of this. On the inside he was full panic mode, sirens and screaming and desperately digging through his options.

                Wilford’s mustache twitched in amusement, “Actually I was referring to my birthday suit.”

                Dark’s neck twitched and he cleared his throat, “Wil, I have things to do.”

                “Dear Prudence,” Wilford crooned, standing and walking around to sit on Dark’s desk.

                “What are you-” Dark’s heart flipped, and his mouth twitched upward at the corner until he bit the inside of his cheek to stop it. “Don’t sing, Wil, whatever you do.”

                Wilford laughed, “Then won’t you come out to play?”

                Dark rolled his eyes, but his lips were twisting into an involuntary smile that he couldn’t will away, “You’re an insufferable idiot.”

                “That’s not the worst you’ve ever called me,” Wilford said, leaning over to kiss Dark.

                Dark smelled the flowers again, and he thought about the pink flower—and the echo of Wil’s voice in the icy void, the way it broke him out of that endless loop. Perhaps a swim wasn’t so much to ask for in return. Dark broke the kiss and stared hard at Wilford for a moment, then sighed, “Fine.”

                Wilford jumped to his feet, “Wonderful!”

                “Once the sun goes down,” Dark said. “Not a second before.”

                “I’ll make sure the pool heater is turned on,” Wilford said, walking out of Dark’s room.

                Dark rolled his eyes again, but when he tried to get back to his work, all he could do was draw flowers.


End file.
